


Negotiation

by andthebluestblue, Shayvaalski



Series: Mark [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Hooper is a badass, I want to touch his face with both my hands, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Mark - Freeform, Moran is a tool, Moriarty Is A Dick, Trans Male Character, Translock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a proposal. Mark has some objections; Seb rather dynamically doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiation

It’s been a very long day, and so Mark doesn’t register the voice from inside his flat until he’s got the key out and nearly in the lock. The tone is conversational, familiar, with all the right pauses for someone to answer—Mark can’t quite make out the words but it seems cheerful—except no one is answering. 

The walls are thin but not this thin, and he hesitates, and then pulls out his mobile. He’s not overreacting—he’s not even dialing 99 and hovering his thumb over the last digit. But. Better to be safe than sorry; not that he has ever _been_ sorry, not that he hopes he ever will be, touch wood, but Mark is a Careful Man. Too careful, maybe—and he puts the key in the lock. 

But of course when he opens the door it’s just Jim, because something didn’t make sense and so of course it was Jim. Mark cannot find an epithet strong enough, even in his head, to express his displeasure, so instead he thins his mouth and cross his arms, trying to look angry. Jim doesn’t even look up; he’s petting Tobi, who is purring in what Mark cannot help but read as a traitorous fashion. 

“You were meant to give my keys back, when you left,” Mark says. 

Jim looks up at that, at least, and his eyes are wide and right over the line from innocent into guilty as sin. “Baby, of _course_ I gave them back,” he says, voice a shade-too-perfect imitation of Jim from IT’s. 

“So you broke in, then.”

Jim sniffs. “Hardly. Stop being so dramatic, Mark, I just came by to see you.”

Tobi reaches out and nudges Jim’s hand that is not currently involved in stroking her, and Jim turns his attention away from Mark again. “And of course then I ran into you,” he informs Tobi, scratching behind her ears. “And you’re such a charming lady of _course_ we had to stop and chat.”

It is not the kind of voice Mark uses with his cat, and this annoys him to a degree that is frankly stupid. “We broke up,” he snaps. “You don’t get to come by to see me anymore, and you _don’t_ get to break into my flat and talk to my kitten.” He steps forward, wanting to pick Tobi up and cuddle her, but that would bring him too close to Jim and so he stops. Jim giggles, softly, and scratches under Tobi’s chin, so that her ears lop sideways with pleasure. Mark clenches his fists; Jim slants his eyes up at him. 

“Don’t be silly, of _course_ I do. It was just a fight, baby. And I didn’t break in.” He grins, mad and maddening. “You keep an extra key in the cup on the mantle. I pinched it six weeks ago.”

“That is _larceny_ , then, on top of breaking and entering, I could call the police.”

Jim from IT slowly drains out of Jim’s face, though his hands never stop moving and Tobi— _traitor_ —does not stop purring. “And are you going to call the police, Mark?”

It’s not a threat—Mark would know what to do with a threat. Call the police, for starters. Instead it’s just empty; no nuance, no reaction or opinion or preference. 

“No.”

Jim smiles, then, and his face fills again, though not with IT. It’s closer to the Jim that Mark saw last time, lazy and self-satisfied and a little dangerous. Mark’s stomach twists. His stomach, and lower, and without thinking he licks his lips. Jim’s eyes flick to the motion; nothing about his face changes but he looks abruptly and unbearably smug. 

“What are you going to do, then?”

The question hangs between them. Mark puts his fingers to the knot of his scarf, begins to untie it while carefully not meeting Jim’s gaze. He lays it over the back of the armchair, then lays his coat on top of it and puts his bag on the seat. Jim just watches. He is still watching when Mark says tightly, “You’re a bloody wanker, Jim,” and crosses the space between them to slide cold fingers along the line of Jim’s jaw, keeping him still so Mark can kiss him. Jim purrs nearly as loud as Tobi, and reaches for Mark’s hips, who lets him do it but doesn’t allow himself to be drawn down onto the couch. 

“I’m still angry,” he says, some minutes later, and glares down at Jim. “And you still owe me an explanation.”

Jim looks disgruntled and impatient, and it is so familiar—trying to drag something out of Jim or drag Jim into something while he pouts and makes pleading noises and pulls on Mark’s beltloops—that Mark is suddenly pleased to see him, even through all the irritation.

“I don’t know what there is to explain, darling.” Jim says, and his eyes flick to Mark’s neck and stay there. “I’m a very important man. I do a lot of—very important things. Sometimes they’re a bit dangerous, and _sometimes_ they’re maybe a bit less than legal but _everyone_ breaks the law once in a while, baby.”

“That is not an explanation,” Mark says, but he still nips Jim’s lower lip in reward. Tobi, apparently giving up on any more petting, slides disdainfully off Jim’s lap, and Jim shifts further forward in the couch. “Your line was disconnected, and you never _called,_ and at your flat I saw—” your hand, Seb’s arse, the way he looked at you, I’m not _blind,_ Jim, but Mark cuts off the thought and the words at the same instant so he can pretend, like he has been trying to pretend, that it Did Not Happen. That Jim is not choosing someone better over him. Someone who is more like what Mark should be, and isn’t, and can’t ever become, not really. He swallows, and Jim makes a soft sound, leans in. 

“I don’t want some sort of cipher,” Mark says, into the space just before Jim’s mouth. “I just want a boyfriend.”

He can feel the just-barely movement of Jim’s mouth twisting at that. “I’m not _domestic_ , Mark. I don’t—rub feet.” He leans back. “And I like receiving gifts _much_ better than I like giving them.”

“You bought me that scarf,” Mark points out.

“Jim from IT bought you that scarf,” Jim corrects. “ _I_ would have kept it. Much better color on me. And just look what you’ve done to it!”

“Tobi, actually—and you can’t tell when it’s on. Really.”

Jim sniffs. “Well. Regardless.” He scowls like he doesn’t quite believe Mark, and Jim’s fingers twitch like they want to trace Mark’s collarbones or his hips. “I’m sure she would never be so ill-mannered.” 

Mark doesn’t even have a response for that. Jim, as is fairly usual, doesn’t look like he expects one. Instead he hums on a note that makes Mark’s teeth ache, and puts his head on one side, expectant or inquisitive. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“I’m not domestic. I’m not kind—though I have _exquisite_ manners—and I don’t feel particularly bad about that. I am not Jim from IT, so if _that_ was who you wanted, you should save us both some effort and yourself some laundry, and tell me now.” There’s a quick flash of his lazy smile, and then, “Though I suppose once more couldn’t hurt—” Jim from IT is there, no slow filling but all at once, and his hands go a little hesitant on Mark’s hips. “I mean—if you don’t mind—” he leans forward and licks his tongue over Mark’s lower lip, gentle and a little hesitant, but urgent, and Mark shoves him back so hard his head smacks into the wall above the couch. 

“Don’t—Christ, I’m sorry, are you okay? I shouldn’t have—”

It’s not IT anymore, and Jim’s eyes are sparkling as he runs a hand through the hair on the back of his head. “Don’t _apologize_ , baby, that’s the most action I’ve gotten all week. I could have braced and not hit it if I’d wanted to.” He looks nearly giddy. _Most action I’ve had all week._ That means Sebastian isn’t—Mark is flustered, his fingers light against Jim’s collarbone and then his neck, soft on the back of his head. He can feel the bone of it, the sutures of his skull. He wants to kiss Jim again, and again. He also wants, a very little bit, to hit him—a bit, he admits, because he’s still angry; but mostly for the noise he wants Jim to make again. Jim is moving beneath his hands, sinuous and needy. 

“Don’t do that,” says Mark, quietly. “It’s bloody _unnerving_ , Jim, and I, well.” He shifts a little, awkward and oh, hell, and honest. “I prefer you like this, I think.” He gestures towards Jim, who is grinning like a cat with cream and whose pupils are very wide and dark. 

“Good,” says Jim and he really can be horrifically smug, and stands, reaches for his coat. Reaches for Mark as soon as it’s on, and for a long sweet sharp moment they are pressed together, knee and hip and chest. Jim pulls away first and, Mark thinks, reluctantly. “Come by the flat on Friday, then.” 

And then he’s gone, almost skipping. The wanker. 

 

 

***

 

Mark does show up on Friday, though he’s never quite brave enough to re-try the number and see if it’s been reconnected. He barely even hesitates outside the door before knocking, though there’s a rather long wait before Sebastian, glowering—and dressed in an apron—jerks the door open and stares at him. Sebastian looks, from what Mark can read of the stone face, surprised and not entirely pleased, though not quite displeased. 

Mark is a little sad to note that it is a not a frilly apron, but perhaps Jim is busy elsewhere.

“Should have told me it was three for dinner, Jim,” says Sebastian without looking away, and then he steps aside to let Mark in, giving him almost enough space to get by. Mark ignores him, picks up his chin and comes inside like he belongs there; takes off his coat and throws it over the back of a chair. Sebastian picks it up in a way that looks automatic and puts it in the closet—by the time he’s back in the living room, Jim has sauntered his way out and is twining his arms around Mark’s waist. 

“Three for the evening, Sebby, but I won’t be having anything.” Mark gives Jim a disapproving look, and is faintly perturbed to see Seb doing the same out of the corner of his eye. Jim waves them both away, though, and pulls Mark into the kitchen to sit at a table that looks like it is probably worth more than Mark’s entire flat, the cherry-colored wood satiny beneath his fingers.

“Are you almost finished?” Jim asks, and Sebastian grunts. Jim beams at them, seating himself at the table kitty-corner from Mark and folding his hands. “We’ll wait, then.”

And wait he does, humming very softly, perfectly content. Sebastian makes a great deal of noise despite apparently only needing to finish sauteeing some greens; Mark opens his mouth to say something, once, but Jim’s eyebrows fly up and he makes a scandalized face at Mark.

Fine, then. Mark can wait just as well as Jim. He takes the opportunity to look around him, since he’s never spent much time in the kitchen. That the flat is appallingly nice is something Mark already knows, but while the rest of it shows heavy evidence of Jim’s hand, the kitchen is clearly Sebastian’s territory, with all the pots hung a little too high to be comfortable for Jim to reach without a stool. (And Jim would never use a stool.) The pale-yellow walls are nearly the color of Sebastian’s hair, and he moves around the room like it’s second nature, and Mark notices, with a small start and no surprise, that there are no knives visible, anywhere. 

Sebastian glances at him, and Mark realizes he is staring, and jerks his eyes away. Jim giggles, reaches out, and traces Mark’s jaw. Mark leans forward into it, automatically, and Jim’s mouth is starting to turn towards him when Sebastian makes an exceptionally loud noise with the plates and announces, “Done.” 

“Excellent,” Jim says, and Mark quickly straightens up. Not blushing, though, he tells himself, because he has nothing to blush about, Jim is _his_ boyfriend (probably) and it is perfectly reasonable for them to kiss.

Sebastian’s face is aggressively blank, though, and he doesn’t look at Mark as he sets the plate in front of him. He does look at Jim, however, as he puts the second plate down in front of the other man, and at Jim’s annoyed noise he drops into the chair at Jim’s right, folds his arms, and raises his eyebrows. Jim rolls his eyes and takes a bite of the meal—chicken and sauteed greens on a bed of some sort of grain that Mark isn’t familiar with—and then, when Sebastian does not move, a second one, before pushing the plate over to Sebastian. “You’re eating something else before bed, Boss,” Sebastian says, almost stumbling on the last word, as though he’s not sure he can use it.

“We’ll see,” says Jim, dismissive, and settles back in his chair. “Now. I’m _so_ glad you could both make it here today.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes; Jim makes a quick movement and the blond man takes a breath like he’s been kicked under the table. Mark covers his mouth with his hand so that Sebastian cannot see him laugh, and then begins to eat, waiting for Jim to get to the point. He isn’t all at all startled to find that the food is _very_ good, a combination of garlic and lemon that he finds a bit unusual but pleasant. Jim looks between them both, clearly exasperated that neither of them has worked out the conclusion ahead of time, the way he would have (or, points out a small treacherous voice in Mark’s head, the way _Sherlock_ would have). When they don’t say anything he makes a put-out little noise, and interlaces his fingers. Clears his throat. 

“I’ve decided,” says Jim, “that the best way to throw Sherlock off my scent—” (Mark is delighted and horrified to see the same irritated look cross Sebastian’s face that he feels cross his own) “—is to have the two of you begin _dating_.”

There is a long pause. Sebastian very deliberately takes a drink of water and then sets his glass on the table, while Mark stays extremely still, wishing he had not taken a bite immediately before Jim’s announcement. 

Sebastian appears content to stare at the ceiling after his drink, and Jim is smiling brightly at both of them, so Mark finally swallows his mouthful—praying that the mostly-unchewed food will not stick on the way down, because this is _not_ the time—and says, “What?”

Jim looks faintly put out at having to repeat himself, which is fairly par for the course and completely unreassuring. “You and Sebastian. You’ll make a lovely couple, I think; though we’ll have to consider how you _dress_ , Sebby, I don’t want anyone to think that Mark is dating down.” He grins, widely. Sebastian tips his chair back, runs a thumb over his lower lip, glances at Mark and then away. “Your first date is next Thursday, at—”

“No,” says Mark. Sebastian’s hands drop to his lap, and all four legs of his chair ease back to the floor. 

“Pardon?” Jim says, his face very still. Sebastian has picked back up his glass and is drinking again, and Mark focuses his eyes back on Jim.

“We’re not dating.”

Jim relaxes a bit at that, and makes an impatient motion with his hand. “No, darling, but you _will_ be—I’ve got it all worked out. Don’t worry; Sebastian won’t be arranging any of your dates.”

Now Mark has a reason to look at Sebastian. “You knew about this, then?”

Sebastian sets his glass down with a click, an odd tilt to his neck. “No.”

“It’s more efficient to tell you both at once,” Jim says. “Now, if you’ll both _focus_ —”

“No.” Sebastian says, and his hands twitch towards his glass before he folds them. Jim’s eyes dip black, at that, and he stares at Sebastian. “No?”

“No,” Sebastian says, gallows-calm. “You heard the boy. It’s not going to happen.”

_The boy._ If Mark were just a little younger he would slide down in his chair in the hope that the way he is blushing would pass unnoticed—but the way Jim is staring at Sebastian, and Seb at the wall above Jim’s left shoulder, he doubts it will be anyway. 

“Did I make it sound like you had a choice, tiger?” Jim’s fingers curl around his knife; Sebastian’s eyes flick down and the look that flashes across his face is clear enough for Mark to realize he is regretting setting the table with anything sharper than a spoon. 

But then Mark is looking more closely at Sebastian’s face than he likes to admit. 

“He has a choice,” Mark says, a bit sharper than he intended and now they are both staring at him, oh dear, and he hopes his blush has faded. “I’m not—I don’t—Jim, _consent_!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jim says, and rises from the table. “He’ll _consent_. Give us a moment, would you? Sebastian, bedroom. _Heel.”_

Sebastian stands is a way that does not, to Mark’s eyes, look strictly voluntary, and Mark scrambles up too before they can leave.

“James Moriarty, if you, if you do _anything_ to him, I am walking out that door and straight to Sherlock’s flat and I am telling him _everything_ ,” and he is used to being angry with Jim, but there is not usually such a thread of mortification running through it.

Sebastian’s eyebrows go up, and Jim rocks back ever so slightly, settling on his heels. He blinks, a long slow considering blink; shifts his weight until he looks ready to pounce and licks his lips. Quick. Darting. Almost obscene. “Well,” he murmurs, “that _is_ a good sign. You can sit, Sebby baby. Thursday, then?” His fingers splay against Sebastian’s chest (Mark hadn’t even seen his hand move), pressing him back down into his chair.

Mark has no idea what just happened, and the complicated look on Sebastian’s face is not helping. “He hasn’t said _yes,_ Jim,” he says, almost plaintive; but Seb looks up at him, expression transmuting into something conflicted and unreadable, and Mark—isn’t sure. He still isn’t entirely sure what Sebastian and Jim’s relationship is—can’t even tell who is in charge, after the scene at dinner—so he isn’t sure how they work. 

“Hasn’t he?” Jim says, Mark’s internal voice made smug, and reseats himself at the table. Mark, awkwardly, is the only one left standing, and he looks between the two of them. Sebastian still has that odd look on his face, but Jim is easy to read, pleased and calmed as he swipes Sebastian’s plate and begins eating. 

Mark sits back down. Sebastian’s face is a bit mournful, now, and Mark hesitates before sliding his plate across the table.

“Ate before I came,” and then hastily adds at Sebastian’s slightly offended look, “Not that it’s not good! But. I wasn’t sure what would be happening.” 

“Hoping for something _else_ to eat, Mark?” Jim drawls, and Mark spares a moment to wish his complexion was just a touch less fair. It’s a long moment before Sebastian pulls the plate to him and says, thoughtfully, “Thanks.”

This is not the kind of dinner date Mark was expecting. He goes to pull a lock of his hair forward (not to chew on, he tells himself; he is _much_ too old to be doing anymore, just to have it there) and is startled, again, by how short it is, how the strands slip through his fingers. He is a different man now; Mark can handle this. 

“I—do you mind?” he asks, abrupt and awkward into Jim’s self-satisfied silence. They both stop eating.

“No. You can eat next time.” Sebastian says, and Jim smirks.

“I don’t think that’s what he meant, Sebby.”

“No, I meant the—the dating.” Mark twists his hands together, below their lines of sight.

 “Do _you_?” Sebastian asks, and apparently he has Jim’s ability to dodge questions.

“No, of course not.”  Mark says it just a shade too fast, but that’s _fine,_ this is all resolved now, they can finish dinner like normal people. Sebastian breathes out a long breath, settles back in his chair, and picks up his fork, focus turning inward, and everything. Is. Fine.

“Of course not,” Jim repeats quietly, and if he becomes any more delighted with himself he is going to pull something. 

Sebastian glances at Jim and then at Mark. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Mark says, very quickly and very firmly. Jim’s grin is starting to spread over the entirety of his face, and Seb looks at it with a hint of familiar resignation. “Boss,” he says, warning all through it, and Jim flaps a hand, and Mark mutters, slightly more insistently, “It’s _nothing,_ Seb.”

“Seb,” says Jim, like he’s tasting the name, lazy and sated. “Terribly intimate, isn’t it. When your date’s not til next week. It’s a good thing I’m here as a chaperone, boys, since you’re not _official_ yet.” 

“ _Boss_ ,” Seb says again, and the note of warning has been replaced by one of pleading.

“Calm _down_ , Sebby, I’ll be _good_.” Jim says, and crosses his fork and knife neatly on his plate. “Now.” He lounges back in his chair, careless and dark and Mark wants him more in this moment than he ever has before. “Let’s discuss your plans for next Thursday.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you thought this wasn't coming you weren't reading carefully enough :D
> 
> Also, standard disclaimer re: Mark as a human being and not a Teaching Tool for Transmen applies.


End file.
